Queen of Hearts
by NiraKaulitz
Summary: People say that when you fall in love, everything is different. You get this suffocating feeling in your chest, you run into walls and doors, you know the drill. If you have the very bad luck to fall in love with the Queen of the Saints, however, your problems are even worse. Make one wrong move and she might just rip your heart out with her bare hands. Literally. MattMxFem!Boss
1. A Run of Bad Luck

**A/N- Hey guys, this is my first Saints Row fanfiction and I wrote it mainly because I had this random idea for a pretty lengthy Matt Miller/Boss story set along the actual Saints Row games' story lines that I thought other people might like to read. Most of the other Matt/Boss stories on here are really short and I wanted to write one that would go on for a while and be sort of more fluffy instead of...all sexual? Because I want all you readers to imagine your own boss character in the story instead of just seeing mine, I will not be describing her at all (besides her height, which is sort of decided by the game anyway). The story line will follow along with the plot of the games mostly, but I will probably change the dialogue and tweak certain events to better fit the headcanon and not bore you guys. Enjoy! Reviews are better than an actual paycheck to me!**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Saints Row ****or any of its characters. ****The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter One: A Run of Bad Luck

The first time I saw her she was on my cellphone screen, glaring up at me through the camera feed in a way that made me feel like she could see me too. She had a gun in her hands, a heavy SMG that looked like it had been used way more often than it should have been, and an expression of absolute defiance on her face. They told me she was a psychopath and I believed them, but looking at her in that moment made me think there was more to her than the others knew.

I watch warily over Phillipe Loren's shoulder as the leader of the Saints fires one expertly targeted shot at the camera above her and I even cringe a bit when the monitoring device goes out with a bang. The screen of my cellphone goes all black then, leaving me to assume that the girl and her crew of miscreants must want the Morningstar penthouse for themselves. At least, that's the conclusion I'd drawn after watching the Saints boss wrest an answer about the bomb Loren had stashed in that hideout from an unwilling lieutenant.

"That cow!" my boss exclaims in his slightly annoying Belgian accent, "This is the second time in two days that she has escaped from me!"

"This would actually be the third time, sir," I begin hesitantly, but change tack at the speed of light when I see that Killbane is glowering at me, "A-although I suppose what truly matters now is how we take her down."

The DeWynter twins exchange a glance before putting their two cents in.

"She's the key." Viola says.

"The others will fall apart if we get rid of her." Kiki adds on.

Across the table from our little huddle, Killbane stops stretching his arms long enough to roll his eyes. I'll never admit it, but out of everyone in this room he is the person whom I fear the most. The wrestler before me is about six feet tall and more muscular than Damien, the leader of the third battalion of the Cyprian Order. Nyte Blayde references are the best references I have for this man.

"Killing her will be easy. Just get me alone in a room with her for two minutes."

Out of fear I don't comment on the stupidity of that plan, and I'm surprised when the DeWynters choose not to do so either. They're usually the voice of reason in situations like this. Loren shakes his head, though, and hands my cellphone back to me.

"This woman is a fighter, not a thinker. If we want to tear her down we will have to do it in a way she will not expect and cannot control."

I hold my phone gingerly in one hand, waiting for the rest of Loren's little speech. He might be my boss but I feel no qualms in admitting that he has a tendency to ramble on much longer than he needs to.

"What do you have in mind?" Kiki asks our leader. She and her sister are the heads of the biggest prostitute ring in the city, supplying everyone from common blue-collar laborers to wealthy politicians with expensive sexual favors. I repress a shiver at the thought because 1. I am a virgin (another thing I won't admit to freely) and 2. I always thought sex should amount to something more than pointless pleasure.

"I think we need to divide up our targets," Loren says, gracefully sitting back down in his chair at the head of the table. He swivels the seat around to face the colossal television monitor on the wall and gives me an order.

"Mr. Miller, please bring up any video footage you have collected on the Saints leader and her two remaining lieutenants."

I comply with his orders, using my phone to send out the requested data to the big screen. The monitor shows us four separate videos playing at once, three of them displaying the aforementioned gang members performing various activities and the fourth giving us a live feed of the Morningstar penthouse balcony, which has clearly just become property of the Saints. Two of the less important members of the gang are putting up decorative purple banners as we watch.

"This girl does not seem to be much of a problem," Loren gestures towards the pre-recorded video of Shaundi that I'd taken from her dating show, "I will leave her to you, Kiki and Viola. You are women, figure out how she thinks. Break her."

The twins nod, eyes fixated on the image of Shaundi coyly pulling her hand out of some Hispanic man's grasp. Phillipe then swivels around to address Killbane.

"Mr. Killbane, I am sending you after this...Pierce. He appears to be more of a tactician than a fighter and should be quite easy to get rid of."

Killbane is hardly paying attention to this, as focused as he is on massaging his biceps. If only I wasn't twig skinny in comparison, I'd tell him how useless he really is to us.

"It won't even be a challenge," the wrestler tries to make his voice menacing but it just comes out sounding like he has a sore throat.

"Does that mean you'll be taking on the boss yourself, sir?" I say, noticing that the Saints leader is the only target left. In her video footage, she is moving around the prison cell Loren had her thrown in when she'd tried to rob a Morningstar bank just a few days ago. She's got her fingers laced together behind her back and she's pacing the length of the room nervously. Shaundi and Johnny Gat (now assumed to be dead) watch her with expressions of annoyance on their faces. Even though there's a television screen between us I can tell that if she was standing right here beside me, she'd be quite a bit taller than my five feet seven inches. Not that it matters. At the age of sixteen, I've still got plenty of growing to do before I reach my full height.

Almost a minute passes like this before I realize that Loren never answered my question. I look over at my boss only to catch him smirking up at me in a self-satisfied sort of way.

"No, Mr. Miller," Loren says, "You are the one who is going to take her on. And you will win."  
This revelation forces a wave of shock to reverberate down my spine, so strong that I can't think, let alone speak, for longer than I'm comfortable with. Viola, Kiki, and Killbane had burst in with their own complaints and suggestions as soon as Loren had announced this last piece of his plan, but he silences them with a wave of his hand.

"My word is final. Mr. Miller can fight this psychopath on a plane she has never felt at home on."

"What, you mean that technical shit he's into?" Viola interrupts scathingly, "This kid has no idea what he's up against!"

"Neither do you, Viola," Loren snaps, "I am not changing my mind. Now I need all of you to clear out of here and do what I hired you to do."

The twins grumble audibly and head towards the exit of the expansive room without another word to either Loren or me. Killbane files out not long after them and it seems like he's already forgotten about his desire to bring down the Saints all on his lonesome. When I turn back to our boss, hoping to talk my way out of carrying out the mission he's assigned me, I'm a little surprised to see him still fixated on the live-feed of the ex-Morningstar penthouse. Something about his expression makes me rethink any ideas I'd had of rejecting his assignment, and encourages me to follow my fellow officers out of the room.

I walk down the hallway as quickly as I can, my shoes making a slapping sound each time they come down against the tile floor. I don't want to kill her. I hate her, obviously, I mean what's not to hate about the woman who could potentially take the lives of more Deckers than I'd care to lose? I hate her, I really do, but I don't want to kill her. I keep imagining her the way she'd looked when she'd shot down the camera I'd been watching her on with self-confidence and anger too obvious in her bright eyes. She's a psychopath and it is my job to hate her-to kill her, but (and my heart gives a weak flutter as I think this) she'd somehow seemed quite lovely to me in that moment.


	2. Making an Entrance

**A/N- I decided to post chapter two right away because chapter one seemed kind of flimsy on its own. R&R please, I'd even appreciate tips and criticism!**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Saints Row or any of its characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Two: Making an Entrance

"Matt, are you even listening?"

I look up from my cellphone, which I'd been messing with under the table, and try to focus on the conversation.

"What?"

"You're not, are you?" my girlfriend demands and snatches the phone away from me before I can stop her. Tiffany's eyes widen as she looks down at the screen or, more specifically, the person I'd been watching on it.

"What's this?" she says, her voice shrill. I let out a weary sigh and take the phone back from her.

"It's my job, Tiff." I explain, "She's my target and I need her under constant surveillance."

The Saints boss has been a thorn in my side for more than a week now and I'm hardly any closer to catching up with her than I was when I'd started. Every action she performs is unprecedented and seemingly spontaneous; how can I possibly get ahead of someone who never plans anything out?

"Why's the Saints Queen your business?" Tiffany refers to the boss using her celebrity title, "Why can't Loren handle her? Or Killbane, he's all tough isn't he?"

I exit out of the various videos I'd been playing through, all taken from hidden cameras I'd had set up all around the ex-Morningstar now Saints penthouse and attempt to piece together what I'd just seen. The boss and her two remaining lieutenants had been packing some heavy artillery in preparation for something, and they'd headed out pretty quickly. I'll have to get someone to install microphones in the walls, otherwise all this surveillance is useless.

"Loren says my talents are better suited for dealing with her." I mutter. Maybe I should call him. The Saints looked like they were planning something big.

Tiffany takes one of my hands in hers and rubs a thumb over my black nail polish. My girlfriend has always been an open-minded person and my position as the leader of the Deckers is something she seems to take pride in. She flips her dyed hair over one shoulder and squeezes my fingers.

"Look, you're really thinking about it too much. Why don't you just send some of your guys to ambush her?"

I like Tiff a lot, but she's never been the sharpest tool in the shed. One time I'd quoted Romeo and Juliet at her and she'd thought I made it up myself.

"She's too powerful for that," I say quietly, trying to keep my tone even, "She's destroyed everything Loren's thrown at her like it was nothing."

I admire the Saints Queen more than I should.

"Then have them attack her mentally or something."

Some days I feel like I admire Tiff much less than I should.

"I'm working on it." I say. Tiffany smiles at this and goes back to talking about her favorite TV show (which is not Nyte Blayde, unfortunately) like the last few minutes had never happened. What must it feel like to be that airheaded?

I run my forefinger over the screen of my phone, resisting the urge to tap into the Steelport Police Department's camera surveillance system and find a sign of the Saints boss somewhere, anywhere. I'm sitting in Tiff's house, right across the table from her, and we're supposed to be on a date. She deserves more than what I'm giving her.

"Maybe we should go out somewhere," I suggest, effectively cutting her off, "To the cinema, perhaps?"

She looks at me as if she's gauging me for something.

"If you're talking about seeing _Nyte Fall _again, I'm not interested."

Good God, how could anyone not want to see _Nyte Fall_ over and over again? The actors, the premise, the cinematography! Oh, what I wouldn't do to meet Josh Birk in person. Maybe I can hack into his day planner and arrange something without anyone-

My phone rings then, cutting through my thoughts better than Tiffany's rambling ever could. When I check the caller ID, I'm a bit surprised to see that Viola is the one calling me. She's not unfriendly towards me per say, but I've always had the feeling that she and her sister see me as something less than them. I shrug apologetically at my girlfriend and lift the phone to my ear.

"Viola?"

"Matt. You've got to get down to Morningstar HQ, _now_."

Viola sounds scared and stressed in a way I've never heard her sound before. I'm out of my chair and grabbing my jacket off the coat rack down the hall in milliseconds.

"What's going on?" I ask, trying to make sense of the situation. I hear what sounds like screaming in the background, and then a dial tone. Dropped call. I reach for the doorknob and yank the door open only to be met with the sight of some sort of explosion set off in downtown. It's too far away for me to hear anything, but I manage to put together that the screams and the lost phone connection must have something to do with the Morningstar Headquarters being blown up.

"No…" I mutter, clutching at one of the columns around Tiffany's porch, "_No._ This is _not_ happening."

"Oh my God, what is that?!" Tiffany demands as she appears in the doorway behind me. I don't answer her. Telling her will make all of this more real.

"I have to go." I say instead. Before Tiff can stop me I stumble down the driveway and to the door of my black and blue Decker designed Raycaster. On any other day I'd care about this car more than I care about most people. Today I'd crash it into a wall if it meant I'd get to Morningstar HQ any faster.

I race through the streets recklessly, more focused on trying to remember which of my specialists had been at HQ today than on driving. My haste doesn't change anything. The skyscraper I'd spent so much of my time in has been reduced to nothing more than a foundation and smoldering ashes. Police cars, ambulances, and firetrucks surround the wreckage and people rush in and out of it in what looks like military-grade protective gear. I don't recognize most of the people there but, after a few minutes of frantic searching, I run into my right-hand man (or woman, more accurately) Kirsten, and the DeWynter twins.

"_Who did this?!_" I exclaim furiously, grabbing Kirsten by the shoulder. She spins around to face me and throws her arms around my neck. She's got tears running down her face.

"Isn't it obvious?" Kiki DeWynter says to me, "God, Matt, you're supposed to be the smart one."

"It was the Saints." Viola clarifies hurriedly. My heart plummets down to my stomach at her words. If I wasn't so frazzled, I might have figured out sooner that it was _her_ fault. For God's sake, I'd watched the Saints Queen arming herself and her lieutenants for battle over a camera feed. How could I not have realized?

"Mark w-was in there!" Kirsten blubbers into my shoulder, "And A-Amy! Jeff! Th-they're all dead!"

I pat the inconsolable girl on the back, not sure what else to do at this point. Three out of my five officers are dead. The Deckers are crumbling and the Morningstar are probably gone entirely.

"Loren?" I ask the twins. They shake their heads somberly.

"Gone." Kiki mutters, and she actually seems sad about it. We have no leader. The Saints, who'd seemed so powerless when they'd landed in Steelport two weeks ago, have successfully cut the metaphorical head off of our organization.

"Shit, what are we supposed to do now?" Viola asks her sister. Kiki fixes me with an angry glare.

"If Matt had just done his fucking job, we wouldn't have to do anything."

Kirsten whips her head up at this and rounds on my adversary.

"Don't you _dare_ talk to him like that!"

"I'll talk to him however I want."

"If you think you could've done better, why didn't you just take the Saints Queen out yourself?!" I cut in. I'm furious, which is an unusual thing for me, but I won't let Kiki get away with blaming this on me. Not this one.

"Shut up, all of you!" Viola steps in between us, "We don't have any time for this, Eddie's already at the fifth Morningstar safehouse waiting for us. We've got to move before the Saints come back for seconds."

"Not you," Kiki stops Kirsten as she turns for my car, "Loren's officers only."

"Lay off her, Kiki," I hiss, putting a restraining hand on my advisor's shoulder, "Kirsten, she's right. You can't come along."

The dark-haired girl narrows her eyes at me as if testing my resolve. I don't budge. Kirsten then lets out an angry breath and wipes at the tears on her face.

"Fine." she says shakily, "Fine. I'll just go mourn our friends on my own."

She storms away from us, her hands jammed into her jean pockets, her Bleak Line jacket drawn tight around her body. I'll have hell to pay when I talk to her later on.

"Looks like trouble in Decker paradise." Kiki comments. I ignore her.

"Let's just get going," the kinder twin remarks. The DeWynter sisters turn around in unison and speed-walk away from the crowd around our destroyed Headquarters.

"Right." I say. And I follow them.

* * *

_Ouch_. I can't believe that madman actually hit me with a chair. I mean, I knew Eddie "Killbane" Pryor was crazy but I never thought he'd come at me with furniture just for suggesting that Viola and Kiki would be decent leaders of the Syndicate. This combination of fear and hatred I feel for him is entirely foreign to me.

"Stop whining," Kiki says, holding a bag of ice against my face, "This can't be the first time you've been hit."

"It's the first time I've been hit with a _chair_." I point out, leaning back against the couch we're sitting on, "I'm just glad he didn't mark my face."

Kiki runs her free hand through her high ponytail nervously and I can tell she's scared of Killbane too. At least he's not here at the moment. He'd spouted something about wrecking a funeral before blowing out of here with more than twenty Luchadores in tow.

"We've got to do something about him." Kiki pipes up as Viola enters the room. The latter flops down on an armchair to the left of us.

"What can we do?" I ask weakly. At this point I'd rather just roll over and let Killbane do what he wants.

"I need time to think," Kiki hands the bag of ice over to me, "Where exactly did Eddie say he was going?"

"Johnny Gat's funeral, in Stilwater." Viola says, "Not sure why they're having one at all, they never found his body. Speaking of which, we didn't either. Don't you think that's a little weird?"

"That doesn't matter right now. Why's he going to the funeral?"

"He's going to fuck it up somehow, Kiki, what else?!"

"Don't get all bitchy with me just 'cause you couldn't stand up to some drugged up macho-wrestling freak!"

I tune out their argument, thinking hard about the information Viola had just passed on to us. I'd done extensive research on the Saints leader before her attack on HQ and I know how important Johnny Gat is to her. Her police records state that she'd gotten arrested for him at least two times (she'd busted out in less than a day in both cases, but that's beside the point) and his hospital records said he'd taken more than a few bullets for her. To say the least, she'll be very unhappy when the Luchadores interrupt his funeral.

I pull my cellphone out of my jacket and run hesitant fingers over its keyboard. Maybe I should tell her. I do have her number since I'd finally managed to hack into Pierce's contact list a few days back, and she'd never find out it was me texting her. I can make my caller ID untraceable if I need to.

Viola lets out a particularly high pitched screech then, snapping me out of my traitorous reverie. The Saints Queen is my enemy; she just killed my boss, for goodness's sake! This feels just like when the Bloody Canoness turned her back on NyteBlayde and attacked him along with the rest of the Cyprian Order. I need to hate the Saints boss. Even if I don't feel it, I need to fake it until I do. I shove my phone back into its hiding place and promise myself that no matter how badly I may want to take it out and contact her, I won't.

This is my last gift to Phillipe Loren. I hope he appreciates it, because it's one of the most difficult things I've ever done.


	3. A Queen's Title

**A/N- Hey guys, I decided to update today for some reason I'm not really sure of. Anyway, the chapters for this story will probably be pretty short in comparison to my other one so I'll be updating it more quickly. Thank you for all your reviews first of all. BlackOutBlind and darkmoonvampire, thanks for your kind words :). ZorraVixen, no worries, their relationship will definitely take a while to build up. God Is Wearing Black, you caught my Johnny reference. Blazer44, I'm so thankful to have you as a fan. Reviews mean the world to me and thanks for at least trying my story out :D and just a heads up, this story will switch back and forth between the boss's and Matt's POVS, and this is the first chapter from the boss's pov. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Saints Row or any of its characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Three: A Queen's Title

"This has gotta be one of the weirdest fucking things I've ever done." I say through the headset. I hear the crackle of static as my statement is processed by my companions.

"Really?" Pierce answers, "We got shot at by motherfuckin' strippers in our own penthouse and you think _this _is weird?"

The helicopter sways dangerously before I can think of a comeback and I almost find myself hurtling through the sky. One of my foot soldiers grabs me by the elbow, preventing my plummet to the death, and drags me a bit further from open door. Gotta love those Saints. Across from us, the helicopter carrying the ho crate is just as steady as ever. Not everyone can be as good a flier as Pierce.

"Shit, baby, you need to practice aiming." Zimos pipes up in his autotuned voice, probably commenting on the fact that one out of three of our pursuers is still up in the air. I don't know why everyone always expects _me _to be the one to shoot down enemy choppers with a fucking rocket launcher.

"Shut it, Zimos," I snap, "And stop calling me 'baby'."

As I take another shot at one of the Decker helicopters, I hear someone tutting disapprovingly in my ear.

"Girl, you need to relax," it was Pierce, of course, "You been so touchy lately."

The rocket hits its target with a satisfying _boom_ and I lower my firearm, weary of the heavy lifting. How can Pierce expect me to be anything other than touchy? I mean, Killbane blew up Johnny's funeral just over a week ago and I still haven't gotten any sort of revenge on him. I'm really not living up to my title as Queen of the Saints.

…the truth is I haven't felt like me in a long while. I have to keep it together for my boys, though. They need a leader.

My phone rings then, interrupting my reverie, but when I dig it out of my sweater pocket I see a number on it I don't remember along with a name that seems a little familiar. Matt Miller. Who's Matt Miller? And how the fuck is his name on my phone when I _know_ I don't have him as a contact?

"You have something that belongs to me." a British accented voice drawls when I answer the call. I narrow my eyes and move further into the helicopter, sliding the door shut behind me.

"Who the fuck is this?" I shoot back, annoyed. This idiot should already know, the things I steal belong to _me._

"It doesn't matter, just hear me out. If you take the…prostitutes back to the Morningstar I'll pay you top dollar a head."

Immediately my mind starts to list all the ways that this proposition could be a trap. Maybe the Deckers are waiting to ambush us at some rendezvous point. Maybe these hos are actually hired assassins like the ones who'd fucked up our last party. Is money really worth the risk?

"I need to think about it." I say at last. It's a neutral answer. I have to talk this over with Pierce and Zimos before I make any real decisions.

"Of course, my liege."

I hear a click as the stranger on the other end of the line hangs up. My liege? What the hell is a liege? I put the phone away and address Pierce through my headset.

"Pierce, what's a liege?"

"It's a dude who's got the loyalty of his people and shit, like a king." Pierce answers me instantly, "Why?"

I roll my eyes and decide not to answer my lieutenant. So that Matt guy was mocking me…maybe I'll just keep the hos for the Saints.

"Who was that on the phone?" Zimos asks after a few moments of silence. I respond to him faster than I usually would, feeling a tiny bit bad about being such a bitch to him earlier. But really only a tiny bit.

"Some guy wanted to buy the girls back. Sounded like a Decker."

"What does a Decker even sound like?" Pierce butts in. Through the window, I spot his helicopter making its decent. We're about to land.

"Like…British."

The Tornado bumps up against something hard, jostling me and the other Saints in the back of the chopper a fair amount. I'm glad to be back on solid ground. To be honest, I've never been one for helicopters. Planes or VTOLs with all sorts of artillery, sure; helicopters, no thanks.

"Can't make money if I ain't got no pussy to sell."

Zimos is right. If Matt Miller gets these girls back, it'll be sort of a double win. A: he gets away with mocking me, B: the Saints lose out on a pretty huge business venture, C: _he gets away with mocking me_. For purely unselfish reasons, the Saints are going to keep these hos.

My men go around me and file out of the helicopter, jumping to the cement floor of the abandoned parking lot Pierce had decided to land in. I swing my legs over the side of the chopper but I don't hop out after them. I have something I need to do first.

As my thumbs press at the screen of my phone, Pierce and Zimos make their way over to where I'm seated. They wait patiently as I finish sending a text to Matt Miller, informing him of my decision.

_Sorry, we're keeping the bitches. Have a nice day!_

I put one hand on Pierce's shoulder and use him as leverage to leap out of the metal box of doom unscathed. Across the empty lot I can see my Saints using a very large forklift to move to ho crate onto the back of an eight-wheeler. The girls squeal in protest of the action (they're all so sick of being in that crate) but they'll warm up to us in time. We're sort of the good guys today.

"Zimos, you take the girls back to your pad and start bringing in some money," I command easily, moving towards the truck at a very fast pace. Pierce and Zimos hurry to keep up with me.

"You got it, baby."

"Pierce, I need you to-"

"Yeah, yeah, go get us a car. I know the drill."

My fedora-wearing lieutenant changes direction and heads for the street to our right. I pray inwardly that he doesn't get us one of those weird mopeds he's so into. Riding them makes me feel like a college student again. I scan the lot with one hand hovering over my SMG, just waiting for a group of Deckers or Luchadores to storm our operation while Zimos climbs into the driver's seat of the eighteen-wheeler. The Deckers in particular have always been big fans of ambushing us.

"You good, Zimos?" I call up to him as my Saints back away from the vehicle. He leans out the window and flashes me a smile.

"I'm fine, girl. Maybe you should worry 'bout yourself this time."

I don't answer this because I'm not sure how to. Worry about myself? What's there to even worry about?

"Seriously." Zimos settles back into his seat as another car approaches us, "Stress is bad for your skin."

This comment actually brings a small smile to my face. Pierce honks the horn of our new car from behind me and I take it as a cue to say my goodbyes to Zimos and the rest of my Saints. He and I follow behind Zimos all the way to the street and then go our separate ways.

"We going home?" Pierce asks, nearly colliding into another car as he weaves in and out of traffic on the highway. I nod, thinking of Shaundi. I won't admit it out loud but I don't think it's a great idea to leave her alone when she's acting so deliberately apathetic.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as we speed by some unfamiliar fast food restaurant. I glare at it as I reach for my cell, wishing it was a Freckle Bitch's. Boy do I miss getting my daily dose of Big Swallow.

_What a shame. _The screen reads, _I was so looking forward to meeting you in person._

I stifle a snort of laughter at this latest text and Pierce glances over at me, clearly surprised. It's no secret between us that I've been having a hard time laughing at anything recently. To avoid having _that _conversation again, the one about how I need to get over losing Johnny already, I turn the radio on. Pretty soon Pierce is humming along to some song I've heard twenty times but never cared much for and I'm free to drown myself in my thoughts. I press my forehead to the cool glass of the passenger's side window and allow Pierce's voice to carry me into my memories.

* * *

"I don't know what else to say." I admit to the framed picture in my hands, "Except, maybe that I miss you. Is there really anything else to say?"

The picture doesn't respond because it is, after all, only a picture. But it's a rare picture of Gat (he never was one for photography outside of our professional shoots) and that makes it special to me. Frustrated, I hurl myself back on my bed and contemplate throwing the picture aside. I can't. I know even before I actually think about it that I can't.

"If you were here, you'd just call me a pussy." I chuckle lightly at the thought. Johnny never was one to sugarcoat things and he'd tell me straight up if I was moping over something I should've stopped mourning some time ago. In fact, that was pretty much what he'd said to me when I'd been holding back tears after the Carlos incident. _Crying won't bring him back._

It's been a while since I thought about Carlos, actually, and I'm surprised that his memory still hits me with all the pain and force of a wrecking ball. The first time I met that kid was more than two years ago and now the only physical thing I have left of him is his old SMG. Metaphorically speaking, I also have a closet's worth of things I should have told him but never got the chance to. For Johnny I have a little less. We'd been so close that I'm sure he knew how much I'd cared about him without me saying a word.

"I'll kick Killbane's ass soon, I swear." I continue speaking to the photo like it might answer me if I talk at it enough, "And then I'll feel better. I'm not so sure about Shaundi, though. That girl hasn't been okay since you died."

All Shaundi really does nowadays is stalk around our penthouse with an angry look at her face and lift weights in the rec room like she's getting ready for war. The only people left who are still brave enough to talk to her are me, Pierce, and (surprisingly) Kinzie. I think the two of them have somehow bonded over their shared hatred towards mankind.

I sigh audibly and place the framed photograph of Johnny back in its usual spot on my bedside table. It's dark enough outside (and inside, I'd been too lazy to flip the light switch when I'd first walked in) for me to sleep without Pierce bursting in here and complaining about me acting 'like an old hag'. Please. Even gang leaders, especially ones with faces as spectacular as mine, need their beauty sleep.

My combat boots drop to the floor with a resounding _thunk _and I pull my legs up under the comforter before settling down for a good night's rest.

…or not.

It's too hot in here. I kick the comforter away from me and curl up into a ball.

…still not working.

Exasperated, I punch my pillow into a more agreeable shape and throw myself back into it with much more force than is necessary. I'm facing Johnny's picture now, and it might be this more than anything else that makes me feel calm enough to sleep.

The room I've claimed as my own in this penthouse is really much too big for one person to live in on their own; every sound made in it reverberates against the walls and comes back at you ten times louder than it originally was. This is why when my phone vibrates just slightly I hear it right away. I flip it over to see that same annoying Brit's name along with four startling words glowing on its screen, a stark contrast to the darkness of my room.

_Good night, my liege._


	4. Change of Heart

**A/N- Sorry for the late update guys! Senior year is terrible in terms of free time, but this is not a dead story, I promise I'm still updating. Thanks for reading and please review and criticize me if you have any ideas because I can always use it! This is a Matt POV chapter by the way.  
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**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Saints Row or any of its characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Four: Change of Heart

I fucked up.

She wasn't supposed to know I was watching her and up until last night I'm sure she'd been completely unaware, but I just _had _to send her that text didn't I? I'm supposed to be a gang leader for goodness's sake and I can't even watch a girl moping around in her room without feeling like I have to send her some kind of semi-comforting text. If Killbane ever finds out about this, he'll kill me.

I pull myself out of my reverie long enough to admire the brand-new NEMO (Neurological Electro Magnetic Onieroscope) chair before me, a sparkling testimony to technology at its finest. The Deckers around me all sing their praises of the beautiful device but I'm too far gone to hear any of them. My mind is fixated on two very different subjects: using the NEMO chair to_ kill_ the Saints Queen and using the NEMO chair to_ save _the Saints Queen. Once the STAG initiative is deployed in Steelport I'm not sure her little gang will be around for much longer, but I could theoretically use this chair to hack into the STAG usernet and delay their advances a bit.

"Matt." Kirsten waves a gloved hand in front of my face, "Earth to Matt?"

"W-what?"

My right-hand girl looks slightly annoyed as she evaluates the look of confusion on my face. Why do women always get so touchy when you don't hear what they've said? It's not like it would kill them to say it again.

"I was just saying," she begins in a somewhat irritated tone, "If that slag, Kensington, finds out we have the chair she'll send her dog after us."

"Her dog?" I ask, thinking of the very large and frightening Oleg.

"Yeah, the Saints boss."

I feel a twitch of anger at her words, at the comparison of that girl and a creature that can be tamed, commanded. There is no similarity. In my sixteen years I have never met someone who was harder to anticipate or control than she.

"You shouldn't underestimate our enemies." I say, moving forward to run my hand over the chair before us. The thing is beautiful and it will reinvent the Decker usernet entirely. I can now expand the virtual space in which my gang and I answer to no one but ourselves.

"It's not like our enemy is very smart in this case." Kirsten replies and, as sad as it may be to admit this, I can't find it in myself to disagree with her. The Saints Queen may be pretty to look at and unusually strong for her size, but it's been obvious from day one that she's no thinker. Her failure to plan ahead has been her undoing as often as it's let her get ahead of us.

I circle around the NEMO chair, thinking of what it will mean to the Deckers once I get it working. We now have access to basically every server in the country and nobody knows it but us and that Kensington witch. I can delete the electronic existence of anyone I choose. Maybe, if worse comes to worst, I can stick the cops on Killbane. The fact that he basically owns me bothers me more than almost anything else.

"Did you see that?" a young female Decker trills from behind Kirsten and me. She's leaning towards the computer screen at her desk and I surmise that her words were directed at Ben, who is sitting beside her. On good days I try to memorize the names of all of my people.

"What is it?" Kirsten moves over to the desk they're seated at and moves Ben out of the way to get a good view. He rolls a few feet in his office chair before stopping the motion with his foot.

"It looks like something's flying in our airspace." he announces, scooting back up. Kirsten looks up at me and the fear in her eyes is nearly tangible.

"She's coming."

Those two words are whispered at first, then repeated like an echo until every Decker in the room is shouting it as they reach for whatever weapon is closest to them. I'm about to grab an SMG when Kirsten stays my hand.

"No. You don't fight."

I look around, bemused, as my Deckers get prepared for war around me. What am I supposed to do, stand here and get shot at?

"What?" I reply.

"I'm getting you out of here," her fingers wrap around my wrist and pull me towards the back door, "Your safety is our priority."

I'm about to argue when I realize that I'm absolutely no good with killing things and that I very much want to live. If it really is her, though, I'm going to lose a lot of the Deckers tonight along with that NEMO chair. I hate this.

I hear what sounds like a parachute opening as I run for the door, but I don't turn back. I hear screams and gunshots and the sound of bodies hitting the floor but I keep my eyes on my friend sprinting ahead of me, my thoughts on the pace of my feet as I follow her through the crowd. We've reached the door, Kirsten and I, but I feel like I have to turn back and take one last look around the room. She's there. Rows and rows of my Deckers are obstructing my view but I can see her there in the thick of it, weaving in and out of them like a snake through tall grass. She's quick to shoot and moves faster than I thought she would and my soldiers are falling down like dominos all around her. My heart twists in my chest because I want to save them, but what can I do? I can't stop her, Kirsten can't stop her. Nothing can stand up to the Queen. By now I understand that she must have dropped down through one of the smokestacks into the building from that plane or helicopter that had flown overhead.

This time, though she's still beautiful, I see that which is terrible in her too. She doesn't flinch as she takes life after human life and the blood that is splattered all over her clothes and her hair doesn't seem to phase her one bit. She's all alone; no one else is helping her in this slaughter. Her eyes keep flicking between the battlefield and the NEMO chair in the center of the room, untouched and pristine. I want to save its purity from her tainted touch.

"What are you doing?!" Kirsten demands, tugging at my sleeve with all the strength she possesses, "We need to get out of here!"

I can't respond, or maybe I just don't want to. My eyes are glued onto the Saints boss as she moves throughout the room as if dancing, her feet barely touching the ground. Maybe war is like a dance to her. Maybe killing is just a hobby. I've been staring at her for so long that I've forgotten that I'm not invisible. It's not long before she sees me too. Her eyes meet mine for a brief second, fathomless and calculating, before moving on. I was unarmed and not much of a threat to her. I am of no import.

"_Matt!"_ Kirsten shrieks, and this time I hear her. I whirl around, grabbing her hand as the two of us hurtle towards the back exit together. I'm a king with no castle and the majority of my populace is going to die tonight. I am powerless to stop it.

"I've failed." I say bluntly. I'm speaking to myself, but Kirsten decides to answer anyway.

"It's not your fault."

Her words are so cliché they're almost patronizing. _It's not your fault._ It _is _my fault. I won't mope over that fact, but I honestly should have planned for this situation better. If I hadn't been so fixated on the Saints Queen, maybe I'd have realized that she was already coming for the chair. I've escaped with my sanity and not much else. From now on I must focus on only one truth.

The Saints must be destroyed.


End file.
